




“ You 're a friend of mine, old pal, 
Wise to all my roping tricks — 
Have you room in your corral 
For this herd of Mavericks?’ ’ 


MAVERICKS 


by 

William A. Brewer, Jr. 



The Sign of the Pepper Tree 
Berkeley, California 
MCMXXI 


) 



> ^ ) 

0 > 




Little songs, I send you out. 

Not with banners, not with shout. 
But with just a little sigh 
That my mother is not nigh 
So that she my songs could hear — 



How she’d li^e them,—Mother Dear! 

Little songs, take to your Things; 

Pierce swift the heart of things; 

Find the path to Mother-mine, 

And if she her ear incline. 

Sing to her so soft and low — 

She will listen, that I know! 

Little songs, if you should he 
Loved hy such an one as she. 

Then, indeed, you’d understand 
Why, when first your lilts I planned, 
Instantly to mind she came — 

Why I whispered first her name. 

Little songs, go on before; 

Be for me ambassador; 

Tell her all I told to you 
As your lilting rhythms grew — 

Told of things I could not Write; 

Tell her those same things tonight. 


JAN -9 1922 ©CU654177 


t f l 


*VV*> \ 


Songs I Have Sung 


Songs I have sung 
From day to day 
In fun and jest. 

Have passed away. 

Songs I have sung 
In other hours. 

Of happiness. 

Are withered flowers. 

Songs I have sung 
At other times, 

Of mournfulness, 

Are only rhymes. 

But songs I sing 

In Beauty’s praise— 
These sing themselves 
Through countless days. 


The Sacred Hour 


There is an hour 
Somewhere in between 
The daylight and the dark 
When drifting fog 
Steals softly in 
And veils the crude, 

Relieves the drab, 

And harmonizes 
Things misshapen. 

Then outlines made less harsh, 
And rich gray tones, 

And haloed lights 
Reveal true Beauty. 

There is an hour 
Somewhere in between 
The daylight and the dark 
That Beauty holds 
As sacredly her own. 


two 


Little Voices 


I cannot do without 
The little voices. 

Others may have 
The diapason of the waterfall, 
The thundering bass of the storm 
And the stopped pitch-pipe 
That is the felled tree plunging. 

Be mine 

The little voices— 

The rustling of little leaves, 

The lisping patter of the rain. 
The bumble-bees droning 
A clover hymn. 

Let mine be 
The little voices 
Of tiny things, 

Beauty-laden. 


To Claim Her Own 


Beauty does not reveal herself 
To open eyes. 

But to the heavy-lidded. 
Half-awakened, 

She gives far glimpses 

Down a mirror-bordered aisle— 

Faint picturings of her, 

Dim-colored, 

Lovely. 

Nor does she speak 
To eager listening ears; 

But in the orchestra 
Whose symphony resounds 
Incessantly around us, 

She plays a soft sweet violin 
And grips with grace-notes 
Hearts that are attuned to her. 

Beside us and behind, 

Just out of sight, 

She waits 
To claim her own. 


four 


Thinking of Things 


Sitting alone in the darkness and 
thinking of things, 

I can feel little thoughts as they brush 
with the tips of their wings— 
Thoughts of the things that I lay to 
one side in the day, 

Things that I only remember when 
darkness holds sway— 

Things of the senses of hearing and 
touch—not of sight— 

That are crowded one side by the 
damaging hand of the light; 
Vaguely remembered faint pictures, 
just seen from within; 

Things that I dream nor admit to my 
nearest of kin; 

Songs more distinct than by day, for 
the inner voice sings— 

That’s why I sit in the darkness, just 
thinking of things. 


five 


Quest 


Time was not; and I roamed 
beyond the outmost star, 

To seek dear Beauty, hidden in 
the edgeless round 
Of nothingness, that stretched 
illimitably far 

Beyond; and all at one Time 
was; and 1 was bound. 


Fire of Art 


When Beauty kindles it, 
the fire is glowing; 

While Beauty watches it, 
the flame is growing 
Until it warms the man in 
all his members; 

When Beauty flees, the red 
blaze dies to embers. 


seven 


Youth Goes Forth 


Armed with a glance 
For a lance, 

Girt with a word 
For a sword, 

With the shade of an elm 
For a helm, 

I go forth. 

Bearing a tear 
For a spear. 

Two yellow leaves 
For my greaves, 

And the suntanned field 
For my shield, 

I go forth. 


eight 


Tyranny 


I am one 

With the hurled spray. 
The driven logs, 

The drawn tide, 

The harried fogs. 

The ploughed field. 

The flailed grain, 

The flung hail, 

The blown rain. 

I, too, 

Am beaten and buffeted, 
Driven and drawn, 
Flailed and flung, 

Under the tyranny 
Of Beauty. 


Sea-Urge 


Ceaselessly the gray surge 
Storms against the shoal. 
Peacelessly the sea-urge 
Stirs a land-locked soul. 

Thundering, the gray waves 
Boil along the sands; 
Wondering , the man craves 
Sail-sheets in his hands. 

Thickening, the gray skies 
Hang and will not break; 
QuicJ^eningy his heart flies 
Out where tops'ls shafye. 

Bubbling, the gray foam 
Sloshes on the shore; 

Troubling , he leaves home — 
Out to sea once more. 

Swingingly the gray deeps 
Wallow rolling past; 
Singingly his heart leaps — 
Happiness at last! 


The Yachts 


\X/hen the Westerlies come freshening down the bay 
And the whitecaps all begin their lively dance, 

You can see the yachts skim past in full array 
With their pennants shadowing their sails’ expanse. 
Oh, the lucky near-immortal who controls 
All the prancings, back and forth, from spot to spot, 
(Foiling tides, and veering winds, and hidden shoals). 
Of a lily-bosomed, dainty-stepping yacht! 

You can steer her with a turning of the wrist, 

You can shake her with a clearing of the throat; 
She’s the delicate patrician of the mist— 

1 he aristocrat of everything afloat; 

And no matter where you choose to raise a sail, 

And no matter how delightful be your lot, 

You are better off when once you’ve crossed the rail 
Of a lily-bosomed, dainty-stepping yacht! 

You can have your floating palaces of ease. 

With their marble halls and swimming pools to boot; 
You can have your throbbing race-horse of the seas 
With her pulsing, humming boilers and her soot; 

But when you seek the Isles of Free-from-care, 

Will she hold your course? She certainly will not; 

For the only craft afloat to take you there 
Is a lily-bosomed, dainty- stepping yacht. 


eleven 


Renunciation 


White sails, skirting the land, 

White water on either hand, 

Blue sky, and blue-shadowed sea— 

The sight of these is enough for me! 

No more do I ask the heaving deck 
Under my feet, and I little reck 
Whether on ship-board my cabin lies, 

Or on shore—so there’s water before my eyes. 

I’ll plant my feet on the close-packed turf 
If I still can hear the sound of the surf; 

I’ll wander in meadow-grass up to my knees 
So long as I smell the salt in the breeze. 

Past are the days when I piloted ship 
Through breakers and murderous tidal rip; 
Past are the days when I ran with the trades 
With a crew of hardy adventurous blades. 

Now all I ask for is sails of white, 

Never a moment out of my sight, 

And water unmeasured in front of me— 

All that I ask is the sight of the sea. 


twelve 


The King’s Highway 


Set out, set out, on the King’s Highway 
When the dawn is in the air; 

From San Diego to San Rafael 
On the path where the padres’ footsteps fell. 
Follow the trail of the mission bell 
(For now it is smooth and asphalt-gray) 

And forget the world and care. 

Traverse, traverse, the King’s Highway 
When the noon is overhead, 

Past Ventura and San Miguel, 

And Serra’s resting-place, Carmel, 

Where requiems ring in the breaking swell 
And prayers rise in the drifting spray, 

As the hours are quickly sped. 

Lie down, lie down, by the King’s Highway 
When the sun is low in the West, 

By Santa Clara’s adobe shell 
Or Dolores’ snow-white citadel 
And let the evensong dispel 
Burdens and troubles that seem to prey. 

Into perfect comfort and rest. 


thirteen 


San Ysidro Lane 

(Santa Barbara, California) 

I know a road all bordered down with roses 
That winds from San Ysidro to the shore 
Where every mallow-scented turn discloses 
New vistas of the valley’s painted floor. 

I have not walked that way and plucked the roses 
Or tended driftwood fires by the sea 
For years; but if an obstacle opposes 
Or troubles press too hard, it seems to me 

I see that twisty road between the roses— 

Gray shadows on La Cumbra, creeping higher— 
The stately mallows, turning up their noses— 

# # # # 

I burn my troubles in the driftwood fire! 


fourteen 



An Invocation 


Give the scent of the damp earth 
And the wind down a slim white lane; 
With a tall tree to guide me, 

Send me back on the trail again. 

Give me the breeze in the tall pines 
As it whispers a soft refrain 
To the drum beat of glad feet 
That are back on the trail again. 

Give me a breath of the salt air 
That has strayed from the restless main. 
And the packed snow in the dawn’s glow 
When F m back on the trail again. 

Give me the prize of the long trail 
When I’m finished with pack and strain— 
Send my spent soul, at the last roll 
To set out on the trail again. 


fifteen 


Commencement 


There are three roads that lead from here 
Where flaming poppies grow; 

One leads to town, one to the hills, 

And one I may not go. 

The road to town is paved and smooth; 

Its flags no footsteps show; 

But oh, it does not hold the lure 
Of the Road I may not go. 

The hilltop road is winding, rough, 

And going, there, is slow; 

No so the wonder reaches of 
The Road I may not go. 

And I must choose my path today— 

My destination know; 

Oh, would that I might follow far 
The Road I may not go! 

And either town- or hilltop-wards 
I’ll take my way; but though 

My feet go there, my thoughts will tread 
The Road I may not go! 


sixteen 


Vita in Morte 


There is a solemn hour in the night 

When I alone am wakeful in the world; 

When sole amid the darkness, my small 
light 

Stabs swordlike at the gathering blackness 
whirled 

In wreaths about a death-encumbred earth; 

In such an hour, with sharp and echoing 
tread, 

I walk still streets, and watch life come to 
birth 

Into a silent city of the dead. 

Blueness fills heaven’s diamond-dusted dome; 

Small stirrings spread their ripples through 
the air; 

Dawn’s herald shakes his ruby-wattled comb; 

Now pulsing Life re-echoes everywhere; 

But in that solemn hour of the night, 

I, living, leap Death’s fettered, battened 
bars, 

And like a true and clear still-burning light, 

Seek the communion of the misty stars. 


seventeen 


Some Day 


Perhaps, some day, I’ll be 

A bit of the far-flung 
spray 

Or the out-thrust limb of a 
tree, 

Or a breath of the breeze— 
some day. 

Perhaps, some day. I’ll be 

A fog-bank, chill and gray. 

Or a wave in the open 
sea— 

Or a lightning flash—some 
day. 


eighteen 


Youth 


I have lived so little. 
And there is so much 
To see and feel 
And hear and touch, 

So much to love 
And so much to know— 
I should have been born 
An eon ago! 


nineteen 


An Inspection 

“Heaven, Hell or Hoboken by Christmas.” 

—A. E. F., 1918 

Where have you been, 
Overseas men. 

Heaven, or Hell, 

Or Hoboken? 

Have you climbed grandly 
Heaven’s high steeps 
Or have you plunged madly 
Through Hell’s turgid deeps? 

Or have you just waited 
In Hoboken 
For Fortune to favor 
Your luck once again? 

Where have you been, 
Overseas men, 

Heaven, or Hell, 

Or Hoboken? 


twenty 


Campus Aspens 

(University of California—Armistice Day, 1921) 

The campus aspens lay their wreaths 
today 

For Californians, gone from us awhile, 

Who sleep abroad, a weary distant 
mile 

From scenes they loved before they 
went away. 

Though we forget them in our work 
and play, 

So quickly grows a tear into a smile, 

The aspens tell time by another style. 

And so remember where they used to 
stray. 

And thus, upon the paths they loved 
and knew 

The aspens lay their yellow wreaths 
and red 

Where those our fellows trod the grass 
away. 

And every year, their memory is new 

Of that dear band of California’s dead 

Who live again where memory holds 
sway. 


twenty-one 


To An Old Book 

(The Mysteries of Udolfo: 1764) 

I know your gallant knights and ladies fair, 

Your haunted castle and your heroine’s 
tears, 

Dust-bound and cobweb-chained these many 
years, 

Once charmed my grandmother; for every¬ 
where 

Between your leaves are flowers and locks 
of hair; 

But one memento, more than all, endears 

You to me; for when all the mystery 
clears— 

I find her handkerchief imprisoned there. 

Long since her tears have dried; but still 
their stain 

Exists, a souvenir of sympathy 

For her who was as real as life itself; 

These tearmarks make them both alive 
again— 

My grandmother and patient Emily— 

Though only in my mind and on your shelf. 


twenty-two 



< 


Smoky Creek Desert 

Vastness; the ashen, gray-green stretch 
of waste; 

Vastness that enervates the softer sight 

Perceiving fine in drab as well as bright; 

Vastness of ashen dunes, by vastness 
graced; 

Here, marks of passing time are fast 
erased— 

Gray sand where once the Smoky 
Creek ran white— 

The dun sage shrinks from penetrating 
light— 

Dust blots the pathways wanderers 
have traced. 

A vulture, floating, tastes the wind for 
death 

Where carcass-reek rolls up above the 
brush; 

A magpie whistles warning to her brood; 

The basking lizards seem to gasp for 
breath; 

The heat floods down amid cathedral 
hush 

And whitening bones bleach on in 
solitude. 


twenty-three 


The God 


Sh! Don’t tell anyone! I am making a god 

Out of a bundle of rags and a handful of sod, 

And four pretty feathers I found yesterday on the 
trail 

Torn by a hungry fox from the breast of a quail. 

I’ll give it a face that is ugly and twisted with hate 

(I’ll tell all the others that this is the visage of Fate) 

And its teeth I will make out of brilliant and water- 
worn stones; 

(If the others aren’t good, I will say, it will gnaw at 
their bones.) 

I’ll fashion its legs from the long wishing bones of a 
goose 

And when it is finished I’ll paint it with blueberry 
juice, 

And then I’ll exalt it, and build it a wonderful stand 

Where the tribesmen may offer it gifts of the fat of 
the land. 

But always I’ll know that the god that I made is but 
clay— 

Something that I can destroy any time of the day; 

Rags, and four feathers, and goose-bones, and pebbles 
and sod— 

Sh! Don’t tell anyone! I am making a god! 


twenty-four 


Warfare 


In vain the moon has flashed 
her scimitar 

Against the spider’s opalescent 
shield; 

So now she’s launched a 
flaring shooting-star, 

But still Arachne will no 
vantage yield. 

Instead, the bolt is glanced off 
harmlessly, 

And when the tide of battle’s 
reached its ebb, 

The spider’s is the victory— 
for, see— 

The moon’s entangled in the 
spider’s web! 


twenty-five 


Gray Weather 

Festoons of gray mist, 

Softly draped from the trees. 
Are caught in the twist 
Of the afternoon breeze; 
Mottled gray skies, 

Like guinea-hen’s feather, 

Watch how dim the day dies 
This gray weather. 

The gray asphalt street, 

Littered thick with dead leaves 
Resounds to the beat 
Of the trample that weaves 
Patterns of song 
From the scuff of the leather 
As the crowd drifts along 
This gray weather. 

Across the gray town 
From the wide-reaching moors 
A breeze loiters down 
With a perfume that lures; 
Odors that cling, 

And a breath of the heather, 
And a promise of spring, 

This gray weather. 


twenty-six 


Envoi 


Hardened critics, spare me, pray 
Save and modify your curses; 
And perhaps another day 
I will pen you better verses! 


LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



0 018 603 666 9 0 


Copyright, 1921, by William A. Brewer, Jr. 














